


careless undoers, untanglers of threads

by luciferTM



Series: i am dissonance [ v3 postgame ] [1]
Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Gen, Just making that clear, New Dangan Ronpa V3 Spoilers, please don't read romo into this it cannot and will not be they are Gay, this is strictly platonic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-23 00:27:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19139911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luciferTM/pseuds/luciferTM
Summary: [ MAJOR V3 SPOILERS ]Kokichi does not act blindly. He can lull himself, distract himself, turn his gaze away, even inwards. But never fully. Never truly. He lets his feet bring him closer and closer to Shirogane’s room, his hand rise, his knuckles rasp against the door.What could she possibly do to me now?It's not supposed to be a reassuring thought. He still enjoys turning things on their heads.As it turns out, Kokichi understands Shirogane a little too well.The reverse also applies.





	careless undoers, untanglers of threads

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fatiguedfern](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatiguedfern/gifts).



> happy birthday [theo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatiguedfern)!!! ♥ i know you love shiromatsu the most and i wish i could have finished some for you but looks like that will be for next time. they are still there in the background though, thank you for letting me borrow the haircut scene ([from this wonderful fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13906341) for anyone curious!) i've been mulling over your shirogane meta as well to write this... i hope i put it to good use, and that you enjoy this fic. 
> 
> quick note: if anyone reading has a neck trauma trigger, particularly regarding strangulation, tread carefully. (i SWEAR this is a bonding fic.)

we lack a selvage 

            somewhere in sleep 

                            our cells died

            bones and tissue pooled

in the mattress 

            but we unravel

                      at the margins

            unstitch the seams 

until we’ve found

            fragments of flesh 

                      ready to be made 

            whole again

careless undoers 

            untanglers of threads 

                      we mend the frayed edges

             piece by piece 

to a semblance 

             of perfection

                      this morning 

             we fabricate each 

other into being

_ —  _ **_Eloisa Amezcua,_ ** _ from “Aubade,” Symptoms of Teething _

 

 

 

Ouma Kokichi wakes up and doesn't say a word. 

They’re all troubled by it at first. They eye him warily, like they expect him to snap at any moment and catch them off guard with one of his typical outbursts, or with disquieting calm. All he does is watch. 

Distrustful as they were, they did not care enough to probe. If he still wore a handcrafted trickster’s garishly white clothes, he might take a vicious sort of pride in that. 

They soon leave him to his own devices, too preoccupied with the changes within themselves. Kiibo-- whose real name is actually Kiibo; his parents must be such huge fans-- is flesh and bones. Angie has not smiled or spoken of God since she woke up. Momota clenches his jaws so hard at every meal, Kokichi wonders if he won't end up breaking a couple teeth chewing on his meat. Chabashira avoids directly talking to or even looking at any of the boys, including Saihara, who she had befriended. Yumeno grabs her hand under the table when the conversation veers uneasily.

Even Shirogane’s face remains still as a doll’s, and she never quips with ill-timed pop culture references. Like him, she hangs on to silence. He doesn't care for the comparison that must have imposed itself to everyone’s minds, but it doesn't upset him nearly enough to break the stalemate. 

Sleep during the game was scarce and restless. It is now an invaluable reprieve. The few games and books he snatched from the lounge room are enough to keep him distracted a while as long as he rests his body to the point of exhaustion. 

Two weeks crawl by. Team Danganronpa announces that they are allowed visitors. Kokichi wonders what he dreads most-- his family coming, or them not coming at all. Most likely, they will come. They need to show up at least once to maintain appearances, no matter how busy they keep themselves.

He is awake when they show up, looping the last chapter of the killing game in the AV room, an activity that does not empty the room as completely as he would like, but he recently ran out of books. So when they request him, his only thought is  _ Well, why not. _

His brother’s tirade, eliciting no answer, finally turns to a lecture. His mother excuses herself to answer a call, taking her bag with her after whispering a few words into his father’s ear. His father stares, like that would still intimidate him into talking. 

He waits until his brother has run out of steam, his eyes locked with his father’s, and says: “I’m moving out of the house.”

His voice is rasp with disuse. Those are the first words he has spoken since the simulation. 

They're not bad, for first words. He clings to small victories. This one should partially dull the pang of having to say goodbye when he never wanted to give them the pleasure. He braces himself.

It never comes. 

He may have convinced himself that was the ending he wanted because that was the only one he could foresee. He  _ was _ good at that. Is? Was. 

His brother's laugh is acerbic. Kokichi doesn't wait for him to say how preposterous he thinks the idea is. He rises to his feet and leaves them without the courtesy of even a glance. 

 

**─**

 

_ Poison feels like a slow sinking into murky waters, limbs heavy as lead, burning. Like choking on all lies at once.  _

_ “Do you want me to lay you down?” _

_ “I'm fine,” Kokichi says. He can do without the nerve-wracking assist of Momota’s hands, ever hesitating between rough efficiency and gentle guilt. He hauls himself up with the arm the assassin didn’t shoot. _

_ He squirms for a moment, so the pattern on the inside of the jacket won’t get stained with his blood. A futile effort. He just likes to look at it better than he likes looking up. _

_ For a few seconds, nothing more, he indulges himself. _

_ But the blemish spreads and eats away at the only curtain he will be granted, blooming like the bile in his mouth.  _

_ He gives in and looks up. _

_ He’s chasing the faint sound of laughter from one rooftop to another, flapping his cape in the glittering morning mist, bounding over fences and into alleys, summoning escape routes with practiced ease. The sky still holds a few stars. They have until sunrise to evade their purchasers. Police sirens are only spurring them on. Freedom never tastes sweeter than when it is claimed, again and again, celebrated as though it is to be won with each passing day. A thrill shoots through his chest. Tiredness itself is part of their reward. _

_ He runs. As the noise ebbs, the weight of the bag on his shoulder seems to increase. The laughter has stopped. _

_ Are they playing hide and seek? He needs to look for them. He can’t leave on his own. It’s dangerous slowing down; they wouldn’t play this kind of prank. Why can’t he stop running? Sunrise won’t come. The sky is a gray dome looming above his head. _

_ Whispers pick up like too many stations turned on at the same time, a muted sound, circling around him. He stops running. He’s figured it out: they’re not hiding for him, but from him. They’ve left him because of what he’s done. Each hammering beat of his heart brings punishment closer, and so, he doesn’t move. _

_ He needs to be found. They won’t abandon him. They can’t let it end like this. _

_ Can’t they? _

_ Why can’t he remember so much as their names? _

_ Ah. _

_ He chews slowly, conscientiously, counting each tasteless bite, knowing not to raise his head from his plate. Water is running in the sink, so his mom must be here today. She asked a question-- addressed him. He pulls himself sharply into focus. There isn’t much variation in her remarks-- he should be able to deduce which part of what set it is from context, and retrieve his answer like one does an item from a drawer. Every detail jumps out at him in vivid flashes. The napkins, the flower motifs on the side of his ceramic bowl, the baseball hoodie his brother is wearing. He smiles, hums to give himself a few more seconds. They had been talking about grades at some point. That should be his cue. _

_ “School is fine. Normal. My grades are still good.” _

_ Shouji snickers, in that little knowing way that’s reserved for him. Kokichi’s stomach twists. _

_ Had he missed something? Betrayed something? It might have just been how boring an answer it was. _

_ It’s not the same every time when Shouji is the one asking. _

_ Sometimes, he makes up stories. Sometimes Shouji laughs at the scathing commentary made at the expense of his classmates, and it’s easy when he’s laughing at someone who isn’t Kokichi. (It’s all in good fun anyway!) The anecdotes are based on what Kokichi has observed, just authentic enough to ring true. Shouji pokes for any hole he can find, even though there aren’t many. (Karaoke, really? Will you be bringing home a girlfriend soon? I mean, you know, that’d be great…) Kokichi is grateful, he is. No one else is as honest. _

_ The sound of running water fills his ears, seeps into the very confines of silence. _

_ He wakes up inside a room crowded with the dead. A nest of collected clues. _

_ Morning, murderers. _

_ The announcement hasn’t played yet. He always wakes up long before in order to make sure that the bears' voices aren’t the first thing he hears, and that he can drag himself out of bed in time for breakfast. On instinct, he crawls toward his whiteboard-- there’s something on there, something important. He remembers what he cannot decipher with the unrelenting clarity of rehashed convictions. He rips the pictures off the board one by one. _

_ He has to erase it all. _

_ Someone is going to come in. At any moment, someone will force their way inside. He can’t find the eraser, so he goes at it with his sleeve. His right sleeve, covered in dark ink-- _

_ The laughter wasn’t laughter at all. It was crying static. _

_ The room closes like jaws. _

  
  
  


Kokichi wakes up on the floor with his heart in his throat.

 

**─**

 

Someone is knocking on Kokichi’s door. 

He pauses above the milk puzzle he is completing for the third time. His eyes, which he had kept closed to ensure that the activity still presented a shred of interest, snap open. 

For a split second, his mind whirs with the possibilities. Certainly not a visit from  _ this  _ Akamatsu. Saihara would never come without a reason, and even then, Kokichi can't surmise one that would require for him to talk to Kokichi in person. Momota? After their forced proximity in the hangar, the prospect makes them equally ill-at-ease. Amami is too distant;though he means well and would stand his ground when confronted with a problem, Kokichi keeping to himself certainly isn't  _ his _ . Toujou is not involved in their communal life the way she once was. He can't imagine it's any of them. 

He can't imagine any of the others would want anything to do with him, either. Curiosity is enough for him to open the door. 

Shirogane Tsumugi stands on the other side, pale and unmoving. 

“Sorry to bother you this late,” she says. Kokichi’s face draws a careful blank. First, it's barely 10pm. Second, this is the first time he heard her speak since the game, which means either he is the first person she is interacting with or she just refuses to talk when others are around. 

The latter, he hopes, though he doesn't know why she would be more prone to talking in private, where anything could be said without repercussions… or who exactly she might be avoiding. 

“Can I help you?” he says, and when her eyes widen in surprise that echoes his own, he can't hold back a smirk. “Come in.”

Shirogane seems to compute this for a moment before stepping inside. She glances around, too fast for any reaction to register on her face. 

“They told me you were the one who borrowed the copy of our game that was in the AV room,” she says.

“Huh…” Kokichi rummages inside the pile of books at his feet and finds the DVDs wedged between two of Ranpo Edogawa’s novels. “Guess so.”

Though he has no memory of taking them back to his room after meeting with his relatives, their contents are another matter. 

He can’t forget her trepidation during the last trial. Her transfixed gaze, the forceful, haunted way she renounced reality. Yet the expression she wore before she was crushed to death is what he remembers best. That prospect alone would cast a shadow over most people’s features-- he would know, wouldn't he-- then again… 

He can't help but wonder if Shirogane was as fulfilled by her role as she would have liked to be.

She grasps the DVDs.

“Contemplating your handiwork?” he asks. There is no bite to it. She freezes all the same. 

His gaze as pointed as his tone, he waits, clenching the DVDs' jacket in case she would suddenly try to pry it away. 

Shirogane lets go. “I will wait until you're done with them. Goodnight.”

“You know, there's nothing you could answer that would worsen the situation.”

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, running her fingers through it and around it as one would flattening a ribbon. 

“Would anything I say make it any better?”

“One or the other, huh? I thought we’d all learned to let go of deceptively comforting dichotomies.”

“You’re the one who volunteered the idea.”

Kokichi shrugs. “That was…” he bites down on the signature retort that almost slips out. “Sarcasm.” 

“Which part?”

“Us learning. Would be nice if it were that easy. Even Saihara-chan looks like he's forgotten what a shower is again, and, you know, he was the best of us or something.”

Shirogane’s lips purse at his use of the past tense. She pleasantly surprises him by prompting: “What is he now, in your eyes?”

“Isn't it obvious? Saihara-chan is someone who wanted to be part of this so very badly, but he's  _ also _ someone who was determined enough to tear this world from the inside out. Wouldn’t call it boring by any means, but it doesn’t make him  _ that _ special!"

Trademark contemplative look, with her fingers on the side of her chin. “You don't think the person within the game…”

“Was a lie?”

Her chortle comes out half a sigh. “I suppose you wouldn't.” 

If they were still locked behind fictitious glass, trapped under a cloudless sky, Kokichi would have grinned and annoyed her into questioning the faintest thing she thought she might have understood about him. He stays impassive, pinning her with his gaze. 

It’s only fair: he has a weight keeping him in place too. The taste of copper and iron under his tongue, the sting of metal against his skin, cold seeping through the fabric of a jacket that might contain the sky but cannot halt its fall. 

“You don't believe our dearest detective when he says a lie is all I am?”

“If a lie is all you are, I doubt you can call it a lie anymore.”

“I believe that was his point.” He stares at his nails, picks at one. “A real lie. Honesty in dishonesty. I’m really impressed you managed to capture some of his thoughts so clearly, by the way! Technology sure is scary.”

“That’s not what I meant. He’s wrong about you. A lie is  _ something _ , better than real,” Shirogane says. A frazzled look ghosts across her face. “Excuse me.” She picks up the DVDs and slips out of the room, long hair floating behind her like blue smoke. 

As he lies awake that night, staring at the ceiling and mentally replaying the one chapter he missed against the white plaster, thoughts flickering and full of ashes, he thinks of her crestfallen expression once more. 

The mastermind of Danganronpa’s 53rd game went out quietly, a doleful wave and the press of a button, far what from the blaze of glorious despair a replica of Junko would have aspired to. Saihara did more than ruining her killing game. He destroyed her painstakingly crafted shell of plain nothingness. Shirogane Tsumugi was not  _ something _ , but some _ one _ . A pathetic being lost in a labyrinth of her own making, dreams torn away by the reality of death, unraveling at her feet, the seams plucked one by one. Each lie a petal, costumes dropping until her skin was all that remained, until she was left alone with her own insignificance. Mirrors upon mirrors crashing down, resorbing into darkness.

In the theater of his mind, he sees her mouth opening again, releasing the words that were buried too deep for her to catch on the way out:

_ That’s not what I meant. He’s wrong about you. _

He hopes Shirogane will speak to more people tomorrow and leave the role of the silent observer to him. If he didn’t care for the similitude before, he certainly can't ignore it now.

He pays closer to attention to her after that.

**─**

  
  
He doesn’t miss the lack of surprise on Shirogane’s face when Akamatsu shows up one evening with her hair trimmed to her shoulder, heroical tuft of hair carefully clipped against her scalp. Akamatsu does not glance Shirogane’s way as she sits down. She returns Saihara’s stare, discouraging any of her other fellow participants from breaching the subject, and soon enough Toujou coughs into her hand and small talk smatters across the table. 

Shirogane seems lost in contemplation of her own fingers. Kokichi watches the unhurried, precise movement of her hands, and imagines the way a bit of gold might be stuck underneath her nails. Akamatsu’s hair is softer and more cutting than thread. 

What was it like, to have a shine like that lining her hands, to hold the last light her creation could ever give, knowing that it does not, cannot belong to her? Worse-- what was it like, watching it slip away when it gives light still, with only her hands to catch it? 

Shirogane's eyes dart his way. He avoids meeting them. 

Now he knows she is talking to someone besides himself, but that knowledge brings him no solace. 

With surgical, passionate hands like those, how could she bear _ touching  _ someone? At the end of the day, isn’t she the one being unmade?

He hates that he wants to ask.

The truth caught up to him. Not only in the form of a several tons heavy metal press, but in that of his own quiet, terrified tears. No one thought to berate Harukawa for her actions, not for a second; although he would like to pin all the blame on Momota’s selective emotional blindness spreading, he can’t fool himself. Not anymore. He has already paid the price for claiming otherwise: he’s a liar, not a lie. A lie is a much safer thing to be. 

_ Or so we thought,  _ he thinks ferociously, stabbing his chopsticks into his bowl of rice. A flash of her glasses in the corner of his eyes, like quicksilver.

“Ouma-kun,” Shinguuji says tersely. The unspoken  _ bad omen _ hanging in his voice. 

“I already died.”

An abrupt silence follows. Saihara is gaping like a fish; Kokichi grins up at him.

Akamatsu snorts. 

**─**

 

Kokichi does not act blindly. He can lull himself, distract himself, turn his gaze away, even inwards. But never fully. Never truly. He lets his feet bring him closer and closer to Shirogane’s room, his hand rise, his knuckles rasp against the door. 

_ What could she possibly do to me now? _ It's not supposed to be a reassuring thought. He still enjoys turning things on their heads. 

“Come in,” she says. 

“That’s a little careless, don’t you think?”

She watches him stride in, take note of his surroundings without haste or a hint of shame. There is fabric on her lap, a needle glinting between her fingers.

The closet is ajar, revealing a row of pristine costumes. Books are lumped together on the bed, heavy as a body, or several; the DVDs she took from him lay dead center on the table like a holy book she couldn’t bear to open. 

Kokichi observed Shirogane carefully during the game. He observed all of them-- parsing, prying, provoking. While he did his best to stand out, she blended into the background, both of them casting similarly analytical glances upon the cast they detached themselves from. He suspected her plainness could be a weapon the same way his lies were, without disregarding the possibility that raised to an eccentricity, to an absolute, it set her apart in any other crowd, and made her fit like the tailored piece that she was into theirs. 

After all, Danganronpa characters are known to be quite extreme in one way or another. Shirogane was different from the start, though: she was playing the character of herself. 

He should have seen that he wasn't the only one. 

His gaze slides back to her. She is working on an Ikusaba Mukuro jacket. Did she refrain from using this cosplay during the final trial because she wanted to add a final touch to it? She isn't the kind to be leaving such work unfinished. 

“What do you mean?” Shirogane asks then, as though she was waiting for him to be done inspecting her room.

“Well, Saihara-chan doesn't exactly carry you in his heart. Kiiboy either.”

Nobody likes too plain a mirror. 

Without so much as blinking, Shirogane says: “They wouldn't have knocked.”

Kokichi cannot-- will not-- suppress a giggling fit. Of  _ all _ the objections she could find to another participant approaching her in order to hurt her… 

“You are sharper than anyone will give you credit for, Shirogane-chan. In your very own way. From one villain to another, I like that about you.”

Her laborious hand stills. 

“What are you here for?”

“Nothing much,” Kokichi says. He seats himself on the bed, slings himself over it after a moment of reflection, grabs a book without looking at it. “I was bored and I figured that most of the books I hadn't read would be here or in Saihara-chan’s room. Figured this one would stink less.”

“If you want to borrow any--”

“Shhhh,” he hisses. “I’m reading.”

His gaze wanders between lines without appraising the words. He waits for her hand to continue its vacillating. Once he spies that back and forth movement again, he releases a silent sigh, tension unfurling in his chest. 

**─**

 

They fall into a routine. Every day, after a post-lunch nap that leaves his skull aching, he comes to her room to read until he thinks he could almost fall asleep again. Shirogane doesn't try to make small talk; she doesn't refuse it either. She won't try to push him to face anything, and when he loudly comments on his reading, she plays along. She discusses characters, determines culprits and debates plotlines together with him. She excels at commenting on anything unrelated to herself, as expected. 

She would be the ideal conversation partner if he didn't notice her rebuttals, the line her mouth sets into, the automated way she answers. No avid shine left in her gaze, only fog. 

Kokichi finds he hates this much more than prolonged silence. 

She keeps fumbling over the jacket. A Penelope who waits for no one, but hopes to cheat herself into believing something is worth the delay. 

If only they were allowed matches. He would burn that jacket and her whole closet with it. 

Why  _ not _ Mukuro Ikusaba, in the decisive moment that is the final trial? For the same reason Kokichi could not leave Shirogane alone, while Kiibo and Saihara didn't want to be anywhere near. 

She won’t show that she is more than a costume that won't sieve from skin, than the passing mirage of selfish devotion. Not to him. He isn't like Akamatsu: there is no one he can turn to in order to cut the strings holding him upward. He isn't like Kiibo, forced to carry on without stage directions. Or like Saihara, who has the world clinging to his every word, his whole audience at his feet, ready to hoist him up or tear him down, not daring to demand, asking to be told. 

He’s like  _ her _ . More so than anyone else. 

He has to grant her more than silence. But maybe silence was what  _ she _ wanted. 

She sure as hell acts like it. 

“Shirogane-chan, am I boring you?”

Her hand halts. “Everything bores me. Don't take it personally. This is reality, after all.”

“Well, Akamatsu-chan doesn't seem to bore you that much.” He might as well go all the way. “I don't understand why it makes any difference for us to be here and not in the game, seeing as you and I are pretty much still the same.”

“Ouma-kun, you know that isn't true. The Ouma Kokichi I wrote for and monitored wouldn't lock himself in with someone as hopelessly plain as me.”

“What makes you think you know me so well? I’m a liar, remember?”

A gleam as her gaze lifts, cold like light off steel. “Oh, but I do know you. I mean,  _ that _ you. I know every single character of mine, in and out.”

“If that were true, Saihara-chan wouldn't have ripped you and the entirety of the writer team a new asshole. If that were true,” he rises to his feet, jabbing the hand that holds a book at her, “you wouldn't have accepted dying like that. Stop  _ lying _ to me of all people. It's unbecoming.”

“There were unforeseen outcomes to this game… Sure. But Ouma-kun, you said it yourself.” Her voice is too soft. “You died. That you, it's gone forever now. It's not coming back no matter how hard you try.” She smiles a smile that isn't a smile. “We made memories, awful ones, grand ones. And now the adventure --the season-- is over. We won't get to experience that hope, that despair, that friendship ever again.”

“Blargh, spare me the schmoopy shit. We were never friends.”

“Is that how you feel? Or how you think  _ they _ felt? Because you would be wrong if you assume that none of us saw you as a friend… I always thought of you all as my precious friends.”

“I’m still a liar, you know.”  _ Wait, wait, what in the hell are you saying? _ “And the memories aren't going away. We both know fiction does not make it mean any  _ less _ . Is that not enough for you?”

Shirogane shakes her head. “It isn't the same.”

“It  _ could _ be,” he insists, flinging his arms wide open, “if you just--”  _ Synthesized the feeling, melted our individual edges together again into something sharp enough to cut clean.  _

“It's over, Ouma-kun. I can't go back either. I…” her eyes glaze over. “I don't know what you want from me, but I can't give it to you.”

“You cared for the people we were, not as a mastermind, not as an employee, but as you were,  _ plainly _ Tsumugi Shirogane, maybe the realest in your pretense-- it can't make anything  _ worse _ , remember? You're that horrifying a person.”

“You're mistaken. There's no one… nothing else.”

He throws his book at the wall above her shoulder, short of hitting her head. She doesn't even flinch. She looks at him wordlessly until he’s the one catching flames. 

“Liar,” he seethes. "If that's all, then why the fuck are you still breathing right now?  _ What for _ ?" 

Shirogane's face gets impossibly paler, her sunken gaze alight with understanding. He isn't only addressing her. So what? 

He wants to hit her, to shake her and chip at her plainness until an answer falls through the cracks. He wants to take every word back, seal every bit of lying truth behind his lips again. He should not have come to her. 

The purpose to his twisted existence has never been to garner pity. The problem is that he can't make Shirogane hate him. He never could. 

She looks like she thinks he's pathetic.

"I could kill you," he hears himself say. "I have nothing to lose, I could do you a favor right now."

"You won't. There's no point."

"I'd enjoy it. Isn't that all you want, to make for good entertainment?" 

She chuckles. "Like hell it would."

"Then stop me," he tells her, advancing towards her with the most disturbing smile he can conjure. 

"Ouma-kun, please, I need to finish this--" 

He raises a hand to her neck. 

All he has to do is squeeze. 

Squeeze. 

_ Squeeze already.  _

"Ouma-kun--" her hand reaches up to his, and his grip tightens enough to feel her pulse, the rapid beat of her main artery, the warmth of blood rushing. Her fingers pry his away. He cannot bear it, the tremor, as though to compensate for the life he couldn't take. Where, who does it come from?

"Ouma-kun," she says again in a murmur that echoes inside him like a shout. 

Her hand is cold again his cheek, too nonsensical for him to push away. Why does it matter if he cries? He can't feel anything. 

That's not a lie. 

  
  
  
  


On that evening, he takes Ikusaba Mukuro's jacket and tears it to shreds, piece by piece, with a seamstress' fine scissors. Almost artfully, and never quite. 

**Author's Note:**

> tyvm to [lynne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silpium) and [phil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bakeoff) for betaing!
> 
> heads up while i'm at it: i recently made a [twitter](https://twitter.com/_luciferTM) linked with this account where i'll discuss fic reading+writing and post fic updates, if anyone's interested!


End file.
